


the dancing and the dreaming.

by duelbraids



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, its sex dreams but it never goes anywhere, mostly just fluff, vague smut? like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duelbraids/pseuds/duelbraids
Summary: dreaming of the one you love is a mutual curse.





	the dancing and the dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i have yet to even reach the timeskip and i love this church man, can't wait to betray him and follow edelgard
> 
> ** edit, september 27: added a lil bit of dialogue that i cut from the first draft but decided i liked anyways.

Ronove woke nearly every night from the same dream. Her own arms encircle her, as she tries to come down from it. It is always the same, he always finds her dancing, and there is no such thing as modesty or decency in her dreams, and he takes on the spot. In her dreams, she can easily grip into his green hair, his beard tickling her neck as he marked her as his. 

Her dreams about Seteth were _ unfair. _ They made her heart race when she saw him, and a smile unwelcome would fit her lips if he would turn to her. Then, usually, he had nothing but curt, _ cold _professionalism for her. And why wouldn’t he? It is only Ronove who dreams such. 

Perhaps it was _ because _she harbored such feelings, that her love presses against her breast, trying to break free, but these days, he seemed even more distant, sometimes not even shaking her hand. As if she were diseased, and to touch her would be inviting death.

But in her dreams, he’d touch her _ anywhere, _ any _ way _she so desired. Of course, dreams were perfect, but so cruel to awaken from, her restless legs wishing so desperately to be around a body.

She realizes, she cannot sit for any longer. Not with her head filled so wholly with the image of a saintly man, naked before her. No, she needs to do something, anything, to make the images go away, something to tire her out so thoroughly.

Tomorrow was her free day, she could rest for a bit longer in the morning, if she did truly wear herself thin.

Ronove debates changing into practice clothes, but decides that her nightgown would be just fine ( perhaps because, in her dreams, he rips her tights and pulls her leotard aside, to fuck her over a pew. ) If she is in her nightgown, then maybe that thought would dissipate.

The only real problem became _ where. _It was a problem that plagued the others who studied dance with her; the only place truly usable for practice, with floors that worked well with their pointe shoes, was the cathedral, or one of its balconies, and it was only with Rhea’s permission did they dance there. Outside, of course, unless the rain forced them inside.

So, this is where she goes, her shoes in hand and her cloak round her shoulders. She wore simple flats to get there, for she found it quite cold, and to walk around the monastery barefooted was almost a death sentence, what with Bernadetta’s lost needles and perhaps a million practice swords lying about. 

When she gets there, Ronove places her cloak on the ground, immediately missing its warmth, as the night air chills her. Perhaps that’s good - the cold can drive away this heat in her stomach. Perhaps it would make her dance harder, make her forget. She laces her shoes, leaving her flats a top her cloak.

* * *

Seteth prayed after every dream of her. What else could he do? He was beholden to his passed wife. Sometimes, the prayers worked. Sometimes, he could go a whole week without the silhouette of Ronove invading his dreams. But that is not how it has been of late.

Of late, his prayers turn into confessions, telling the goddess how horrid he felt for spurning her. Today, he wouldn’t shake her hand - for fear that if he touched her skin, no matter how rough it was, he wouldn’t have any choice but to bring her hand to his lips and slowly come unraveled, trailing up until he had pressed against some monastery wall.

He had tried to find something to blame, some **reason **why she stirred this fire, this cursed flame.

It must be those tight clothes she wore while she practiced, leaving so little his imagination. _ All you need to know is the color of her breasts, the feeling of her most private regions around yours. _The baser part of him was hungry tonight. He silenced it with a pinch to his own wrist.

Except, it was not just her who dressed so. All the dancers did, it was the safest way to practice. He knew that, logically. It was only seeing Ronove so that made him hunger. But, if blaming the clothes absolves him of his love, prevents him from calling it love, so be it.

This was not the _ healthy _way to handle it, and even Seteth knows this. But he had no other outlet. Prayers offered up in his bedroom do nothing to stave it off. Perhaps if he were to pray in the cathedral, in tonight’s chill, he might forget it. 

He will never **forget, **never. No, it will only abate him for a while, until she does something charming or reckless (or recklessly charming, or charmingly reckless, or showed him her smile, one he wished to steal and keep in a jar.) But it will be relief. For now.

The cathedral is quiet this time of night. Not even the Knights would wander it, save to make a _ very _quick round. So, he was free to pray, and beg the goddess for something, anything.

“Please, allow me to stop loving her.” He whispered under his breath, to a goddess unseen. Almost, he can hear the goddess asking why,_ why would you rebuke the blessing I have given you? _

“Save me the pain of loving someone who would never love me in return.” He answers. “I would be… merely a drain to her, slow her down. Let Ronove be free of me. Let her be happy.” 

The goddess, whether in his head or truly answering him, says nothing. Is this silence pity, that she knows he has hit upon the truth. The air in the cathedral changes though. His heart is not lightened, not the way it usually is. It still sinks like a stone into him, but at least his lungs feel clear, as if the goddess had given him breath again.

He sits for a moment, listening to the sound of the night air… and a soft, thudding sound, from outside the cathedral, on the balcony. Following it is a groan, like that of pain. 

Seteth doesn't hesitate to stand, for fear that perhaps an altercation had broken out, and the assailant was keeping quiet as to not alert attention. His feet take him to the balcony quicker than he’d ever intended. The moon is full tonight, cold light inviting him to stare at the sight before him.

* * *

Her muscles were practically screaming at her. For every mistake, she makes herself practice the section again, seven times. 

It took seven perfect practices, after all, to forget the mistake.

She had been doing wonderful, too! Her practice had begun at midnight, and now three AM rapidly approaches. But the night air changed when she decided to practice a different song - well, to count differently in her head.

Her duet, with one of the knights, was rather hard to practice, when there was no one to ease her down from her jumps, when she desperately needed another for balance. Ronove made do, though, and was so, so close. 

Why now? She must ask, why is it today that she must fail so. By her count, she needed twenty more sessions of this section, if she were to learn over her mistake. 

_ The choir sings of love here, does it not? _ Sothis chimed in her head, _ of how the lovers discover they have always known each other. Maybe that’s why you keep messing it up. _

Sothis was… unhelpful, most nights.

Still, she begins again. Her counts in her head are perfect, two triplet beats, and repeat.

Begin en pointe, first position, left arm up, right arm extended out. Her whole section plays out in _ manéges, _as if she is circling her invisible partner. In truth, they circle each other, always two steps apart.

_ Pas de chat, arabesque penché into pirouette en l’air, glissade, fondu on your left leg, _ ** _reach to him, and-_ **

Ronove hits the ground again, her supporting leg having buckled underneath her.

_ Oh, how his arms could fit around you right now, _if Seteth found her here. He could brush off those frustrated tears. Ronove can’t get him out of her mind.

But she stands and tries again.

_ Pas de chat, arabesque penché into pirouette en l’air, glissade, fondu- _

Again, she leans, and her leg trembles, and Ronove hits the ground. This time, she lands face first, and groans, the pain getting the better of her. Her legs ache, her back is begging for a break. _ If he- _

But she stands and tries again. 

_ Pas de chat, arabesque penché into pirouette en l’air- _

This time, it is her jump that makes her fall, her ankle faltering as she lands. Her knees take the blow, scraped by stone, and Ronove feels more tears, more angry, frustrated tears, in the corners of her eyes. If she could _ just get it right, _ she could be _ done with him. _ **It**. She could be done with it.

* * *

How much like a voyeur he feels, watching her dance with no relent. Ronove is soaked with sweat, and her dress is sticking to her body. But she gets up again, and he sees her start all over. Frankly, Seteth knows nothing of ballet, but watching her leave the ground in a twirl, he is awed by her grace.

But he sees her ankle turn, and as she falls to the ground, he rushes over. Before she has the chance to stand again - for he’s sure she would simply try again, and again, until she got it right or until she broke something - Seteth is by her side. Kindness in his movements, he wraps one arm around the professor, trying to help her.

His shame can be buried, for now, alongside his love for her. She is clearly injured, that should be enough to stay his heart.

Then, a gut wrenching sound; soft sobbing, in angered hiccups, was coming from the woman. “Professor?” His voice is alight with concern. “You’re-”

She sniffles, in response. The rims around her eyes are red. But, she snaps, “I’m fine. I just-” another sniffle, “keep messing up.”

He looks her over, and sees the scapes on her knees, the forming bruises, “You needn’t punish yourself so. Perhaps your mistakes mean your body needs rest.” 

“Perfect practice is what makes perfect.” Ronove’s voice is hard, but the tips of her ears are red. 

Oh, she must be cold - how foolish of him, she is in naught but her nightgown, and slick with sweat, the cold night air must be amplified on her skin. He sees her cloak, and leans to grab it, to bring it around her. “You will catch cold, Professor.”

This time, she has no response, simply shivering into her own cloak. Seteth reaches over, and wipes those tears away with one thumb, his other hand still around her. 

Before he can take his hand away, Ronove grabs it. Those damned tears are back, and she grips his hand so hard that her knuckles turn white. “Professor-”

Almost, he thinks he doesn’t hear her. That her comment was so low, so quiet that it passed by him. But it dawns on him, what she said. “Don’t call me that.”

“I… I beg your pardon? It is your title.”

“_ Please, _please, call me Ronove.” She is begging him, Seteth realizes. Her body shakes, with effort or aches or perhaps the plain cold, but it only makes her plea hit him harder.

“Ronove…” he tests her name out, as if he is a child who has never spoken before. Her name is soft, said to rhyme with words like _ fray, pay. _ **Pray.**

“Might I ask, why the insistence?” Her grip on his hand does not falter. Something is on fire in her blue eyes. She says something, she answers him, but her words are lost to the air. Seteth stares at her lips, trying to see if he can will those words back. This was... not the right decision in the circumstances. She misreads (or, perhaps, correctly reads,) his confusion, his lips downturned as she tried to speak. Ronove turns from him, trying to stand; he sees how she rushes, near scrambling, but she fails, her legs too tired to support her. There is something that makes his heart break, in her expression. It is only when she falls, back into his lap, that her words rush through, his brain catching up.

“Because I love you.”

Like an arrow from a bow - her words hit him, and leave him breathless, defenseless. But she has more to say, now that she lays defeated on top of him. "I'm sorry," and she goes to stand once more, but Seteth stops her, one hand on her shoulder, "I s-should've known, you wouldn't want- that I'm not good enough-"

"No!" How quickly he denies her worries, "Please, do not mistake my stunned silence for spurning you." His whole world is dizzy - did she actually say that? Does she mean it - how so? So, instead of saying what he wishes to say, Seteth asks her, “Please, say it, once more.”

She stares up at him, and for a moment, her face stays the same, loose tears and a slight frown, but soon it twists down, and she is practically sobbing once more. “It was so hard to say. Those words are so heavy, Seteth.” Mercifully, as he rubs circles around her shoulders, she relents to him, and for the second time that night, Ronove tells him, "I love you." 

Seteth takes her face in his hands, trailing his thumb over her lips. He hesitates, but she is so frail tonight, and he fears a second chance is impossible. “I love you too.” How they tumble from his own lips. How he almost wants to take it back. _ Why rebuke the blessing of love? _He asks himself, and his heart finally lightens.

To save her sore body anymore injury, Seteth leans down. His face is so close to hers, barely a baby’s breath away. “May I kiss you?”

It is Ronove’s turn to stare in confusion, her head tilted to the side. Her face is so funny, he notes, when she’s upside down. She asks, “Seteth? C-could you repeat that?” 

His laughter is warm, warm enough to stave off a chill, and he says, “Seems we’re both hard of hearing tonight. I asked if I may kiss you.”

Ronove’s head nods so eagerly; Seteth finishes leaning down, gentle with how he kisses her. Is it her first? It must be, with how slow she moves, how bashful she is. A whole eternity passes, and he lets go, acutely aware that with the changing of the hour would soon come the changing of the guard.

“Come now, let us go to your chambers,” he begins to pick her up, to help her to her feet. Ronove signals with her hand - too tired to speak - that she must take off her shoes. She hands him each pointe shoe as she relieves herself of them, switching to the flats that lay nearby. “How _ do _you stand wearing these?” He asks, realizing that the bottom of the shoe is a wooden block.

“With a lot of practice.” She whispers, laying her head on his shoulder. They begin to walk together.

A truthful answer, he supposed, and he doesn’t seem to mind holding her bloody shoes as they make small talk. Seteth listens to her little whispers in the night the same way one might listen to a priest tell his message. They speak of nothing important, but they do not let go.

Seteth did not make it back to his chambers, and he did not mind waking up in her bed, a crick in his neck. Ronove is cradled in his arms, and perhaps that’s all that mattered.


End file.
